


i carry you in my heart

by tosca1390



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon (Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-25
Updated: 2011-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has been doing this long before he came into her life; she’ll do it for the rest of her life. The only question is if he still fits at her side at the end of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i carry you in my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same world as **took a faithful leap**. Modern-day political AU.

*

The events are still not his cup of tea.

A cool slick glass of scotch in hand, Mamoru leans against the doorframe of the hotel ballroom and watches the room. It’s his usual position, one that allows him to watch for Usagi’s signs, for the women on her team to always find him if necessary, to keep out of the way. He’s still not used to the social agenda of Usagi’s public life, but his tolerance is slowly building. He likes her in the formal wear, likes the end of the night when she’s bright and exhausted and pours herself into bed and over his body. Everything else, he could take it or leave it.

The ballroom is stuffed with dignitaries and politicians alike, another fundraiser. Usagi is nowhere to be seen; most likely, she’s right in the thick of the action, holding her own against the establishment and the men who only a year ago were hell-bent on refusing her a seat at the table. Now, with a seat in parliament nearly guaranteed and a run at prime minister seen in the near future, she is the rising star, nearly untouchable. The mob’s hold on Japan, and Tokyo especially, has lessened mostly because of Usagi’s tireless efforts. Her team is still always on guard, always aware; but now there’s the promise of more than just mob dealings and slow change.

Mamoru is still trying to keep up with them, with Usagi. Sometimes, he doesn’t feel equipped for this life, the promise of this partnership with her. There is a small box in his sock drawer at his apartment. It holds a ring he’s had for nearly six months now. The words come to him sometimes, when they are eating breakfast together, or when she brings him coffee during a twenty-hour shift at the emergency room, or in the sleepy darkness of night with her fingers plaiting her hair into braids. It’s in those quiet moments that he feels he’s worthy of her and the life she leads.

Then, there are the moments in public, where he feels completely at sea. She tells him constantly that he is necessary, he is the only reason she gets through the events, but he knows there’s just the slightest veneer of truth to that. She has been doing this long before he came into her life; she’ll do it for the rest of her life. The only question is if he still fits at her side at the end of it.

These are the thoughts that run through his mind during every event, every function, every dinner. Tonight is no different.

He’s more weary than usual; he’s coming off of a twelve-hour shift with two deaths and three broken bones, among other traumas. It leaves him distracted. He sips at his scotch and glances around for a clock, or Usagi, wondering when they can leave for the comfort of bed, of sleep.

“She’s quiet tonight.”

Mamoru glances at Rei as she appears next to him in the wide gilded doorframe. She is pale in the dim light, her dress sleek and scarlet. She holds a martini in her hand, her black clutch in her other. There is a mellowing in her gaze, something he’s noticed in the other girls when they talk to him or of him. It’s comforting, but he still is on edge with them; they could kill him, and no one would ever know. He’s certain of that.

“Is she? I haven’t seen her in a little while,” he says after a moment. His fingertips slide over the slick grooves of the glass. “Is something wrong?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Rei says, glancing out towards the middle of the ballroom. Her date is out there somewhere; his name is Jared, an American doctor working at Mamoru’s hospital. They met when Usagi brought Mamoru coffee about a month ago; he wonders if that’s why Rei has softened. He’ll never ask, though, and she’ll never tell.

Mamoru pushes off the doorframe and glances around the room. Minako and Makoto linger near the bar, most likely flirting with the bartenders; Ami he can see dancing with Zach near the edges of the dance floor. The mayor is there, along with members of parliament and the current prime minister; but no Usagi. She has her favorite parts of a room, the corners and areas she works best within; he can’t see her anywhere.

“I don’t see her,” he says after a moment, an odd sort of queasiness settling in his middle.

Rei tilts her head, her long dark hair falling across her bare shoulder. “She’s sitting outside. Has been for about fifteen minutes.”

He slants a glance towards her. “You could have led with that bit of information.”

“Nothing’s that easy, Mamoru-san,” she retorts with a mysterious little smile.

Smoothing down his tuxedo jacket, he swallows the rest of his scotch. “She seemed fine on the way over, and through dinner.”

“Usagi is always fine during dinner.”

He sets his jaw and nods. “Why aren’t you out there?” he asks before he moves away from her, the empty glass clenched in his hand. “You, or one of the girls?”

Rei sips at her drink. “We know when she wants us and when she needs you.”

As her words sink in, he watches as she sweeps past him towards the bar. “Let us know when she’s ready to go. She’s fulfilled her obligations for the night,” she says in parting.

It takes Mamoru less than five minutes to find Usagi. The east side of the ballroom has glass doors that open onto a wide balcony overlooking the city. Normally the drapes are shut for functions such as this, but they are disturbed and shifted, and his gut flares, taking it as a sign. During applause for the musicians, he slips outside.

The night is still and cool, an eerie sort of silence. Outside of the ballroom, the sounds of the charity event are muted, the faint sounds of the string quartet slipping under the cracks of the windows and doors. Usagi sits with her legs tucked under her, her ivory skirt a round arc on the bench as she looks out on the cityscape. Tokyo is quiet, on the cusp of summer. It’s a moonless night, which strikes him as odd. He likes the gleam of light on her skin, her hair.

His shoes click on the marble as he walks towards her. She turns her head and smiles slightly. “You found me,” she says, a faint catch to her voice. Her eyes, blue and clear, shine overmuch in the dim light.

“You disappeared on me,” he says, standing over her.

“You had your drink, and your doorway. I knew you’d be fine,” she murmurs, tilting her head up towards his.

He reaches out and slides his fingertips across her cool smooth cheek, into the curls of her hair. She has her impossible lengths of hair pinned up for tonight. It’s beautiful, and regal, but it doesn’t look like her, sometimes. He likes the unruliness of her hair when it’s loose, how it cocoons around the both of them in sleep.

His thumb catches along a damp spot, near the corner of her eye. “Are you all right?” he asks quietly after a moment.

She shuts her eyes, tilting into his touch. “I am. I was. I am,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Shrugging, she slips her hand over to his hip, her fingers curling into the pockets of his tuxedo jacket. “I was just thinking about everything,” she says finally, voice low and lilting in his ear. “How it’s all coming together, it’s all set.”

“What is?” he asks quietly, sitting next to her on the cold bench.

Immediately she curves into him, her legs sliding over his lap and her face resting on his shoulder near the curve of his neck. She insinuates herself into every nook and cranny of his life and space, no matter where they are or when or why. He slips an arm around her waist. Her dress reflects gold and ivory in the faint light. Warm breath settles near his throat, sending shivers down his spine. Her fingers dig into the lapels of his jacket.

“The parliament run. Maybe the prime minister election. Everyone talks about it as if it’s all set, all determined. Even the girls do,” she says quietly, her fingers plucking nervously at his shirt. “It sort of hit me, just now. I don’t feel ready for it, not like everyone else is.”

“Not everyone,” he says near her brow, his hand heavy at the small of her back.

Her head tilts, her chin rests on his shoulder. Her mouth grazes his jaw. “What do you think?”

Wetting his lips, he glances down at her. Her face is open and earnest in the dark. A breeze curls around them, ruffling the skirt of her gown and the curls in her hair. “Think about what?”

“Anything,” she says with a shrug.

There’s a faint ache at his side, a brief sharp pull in the scar tissue there. It’s a familiar phantom ache from the bullet all those months ago, rare but telling. He slides a hand over the silk of her gown, her thigh warm through the fabric. “Are you worried?”

She huffs, her fingers plucking at his jacket. “I don’t know. Do you think I can do this? Everything they want of me?”

He brushes his mouth against her furrowed brow. His fingers pleat into her skirt. “Of course you can. I know you can do it,” he says, mouth turning down into a frown. This crisis of confidence was very unlike her, except in rare quiet moments. “What brought this on?”

She sighs, leaning into him heavily. “It just—it feels real, now. The handshakes and the promises from all those established politicians, and the support rolling in from the lobbyist groups, it’s all here. It’s on the way,” she says, voice far away.

“And you just needed a minute,” he says after a moment.

“Pretty much, yeah. I was actually shocked to be left alone for this long. I figured the girls would freak out the second they didn’t see me,” she says with a short laugh.

“Oh, they know where you are. They sent me, that’s all.”

She looks up at him and smiles, wide and bright and brilliant in the darkness. It tugs at his heart, all the nerves tingling in his fingertips. “They’re pretty smart, sometimes.”

He looks away for a moment, even as she tucks herself closer into the frame of his chest and shoulders. Her fingers crawl up his chest to his face, curving flush to the line of his jaw. Gently she turns his face to hers. “So. You think I’m ready?” she asks quietly.

His hand shifts on her thigh, smoothing up to the jut of her hip. “You can do whatever you set your mind to,” he says after a moment, tongue thick against his teeth.

Grinning, she runs her thumb along his bottom lip. “Did you get that from a fortune cookie?”

“You know this isn’t my strong suit,” he mutters, pursing his mouth.

“What if I want to quit everything and eat donuts all day long?”

“I think you’d accomplish it. Though, as a doctor, I have to tell you that choice might not be the best for your health overall.”

She laughs, soft and sweet in the cool air. “I love it when you talk doctor to me.”

Warmth flushes his throat, crawling up his face. “This really doesn’t seem like the time or place,” he mumbles, suddenly sheepish. It’s easier to open to her when they are alone and sheltered from the public eye; here, he still can’t escape the feeling of eyes everywhere, and his words and hands stutter with the heaviness of it.

Mouth moving at his jaw, she smiles against his skin as her fingers slip through his open jacket to the front of his shirt. “We’ve really got to start getting you to think outside the box, Mamo-chan,” she teases.

His hand curls insistently at her waist as he tilts his head back from hers. She is a master of deflection, or coverage; tonight, he knows he can’t let it slide. “Are you sure you’re all right with everything?” he asks quietly.

She sighs. Errant curls fall across her cheek, the line of her neck. Inside, the strings and the music swell, intruding on the stillness enveloping them. “I will be,” she says quietly, her gaze fixed past his shoulder. “I just – I don’t know. I thought we had more time to just be us.”

He thinks of the velvet box in the drawer of his nightstand. “We can have that,” he says at last.

“You think so?” she asks, all earnest hope as her eyes turn to his.

“We have to work for it, but yes. I do,” he says firmly.

Usagi smiles, the curve of her cheeks flushing pink in the dim night air. “Maybe – maybe we could take a vacation. Or something,” she says, her fingers playing at the buttons of his shirt.

He can’t help it; his eyebrows raise, skeptical to a fault. “You and me and your entourage?” he drawls.

“No,” she says, smacking his chest lightly. “Just you and me.”

“Usako.”

“Oh, fine, yes, probably with at least one of the girls. You know how they are,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Really though, it would be just us. I haven’t been on a vacation in so long, and neither have you, and it would be so _nice_ , Mamo-chan. Don’t you think?”

Smiling slightly, he fits a hand to the curve of her face, his fingertips light on her temple and in her hair. “I think it’s a discussion worth having.”

“Me too,” she says with a sigh, her face leaning into his touch as she presses her mouth to his. “But for now, I’ll settle for going home.”

Shifting, he moves her weight from his legs and stands. She slips her hand into his as it falls away from her face, her fingers twined in his. “Home sounds good,” he says quietly.

“And all it implies,” she teases, voice low in his ear. Her other hand tucks into the pocket of his pants, fingertips pressed to his thigh through the fabric.

He’s quick to find Rei, after that.

*

“Marry me,” he whispers into the loose fall of her hair, his bedroom a dark shelter around them.

She stills over him, her bare skin flushing hot under his touch. His mouth lingers near the line of her jaw, his fingers sliding up the length of her stomach away from the warm wet between her thighs. His hands rest under the cool cotton of her shirt. Sitting astride his hips, she is an easy weight on him, the sheets falling away from their bodies.

“Mamo-chan?” she asks after a thick moment, her fingers biting into his bare chest. She is a silvery figment in the shadowy room, her hair falling around them like curtains. She is still breathless from his hands on her, as he is spent; the disbelief in her voice catches him to the quick.

Mamoru looks up at her, at the fall of her hair, the bright gaze that never dims, and gathers whatever courage he has left in him. He reaches over to his nightstand and slides the drawer open, his fingers curling around the box.

“Oh wow,” she whispers, sliding off of him. She sits with her hands tucking upwards into the cuffs of his shirt. “Oh, wow.”

He sits up, the sheets rucked at his hips. “I wanted to do this at dinner sometime, or in the park –“

“No, no,” she says, a smile cresting across her face.

“No?” he repeats, dropping the box in his lap.

“I mean no, this is perfect, go on, go on!” she exclaims, pressing her fingers to her mouth. She is nearly shaking in the darkness, her hair loose and wild across the shoulders of his dress shirt. Her skin is still flushed from just moments before. The smell of them lingers in the air and mixes with sweat and the sweet chill of late spring.

Ducking his head, he stares at his empty hands, at the box sitting harmlessly in his lap. The air thickens around him. A lump forms near the base of his throat. Everything he considers in his head sounds trite, and shallow. He has leapt in front of bullets for her and she has defended him from the mob and her girls, and there is little else he can say to overtake the actions of their everyday lives together.

“Marry me,” he repeats at last, looking up. “Marry me, Usako.”

There is the distinct shine of tears in her eyes, the cuffs of his shirt sleeves pressed to her lips. “Of course I will,” she says at last, voice reedy. “Of course, of _course_ –“

He takes her hands in her and kisses her before she can say another word. Her lips tremble against his as her fingers search for his. There is warmth and a pressure in his chest he can’t account for. It has taken up residence ever since she has come into his life, and he doesn’t know a day without it. She is laughing and kissing him, her mouth open and wide under his, and it is more of a mark and a sign than any ring to put on her finger.

Still, when he finally does slide the ring onto her finger, she has to wipe tears from her face before she kisses him again.

“Maybe it can be a honeymoon,” she says later, her voice syrupy with sleep. She lays tucked to his side, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. His shirt is forgotten to the floor once more.

“What can?” he asks, his mouth near the line of her hair. His fingers sift through the thick curls.

Her ankle presses between his, her mouth soft on his shoulder. “Our vacation,” she murmurs, her hand resting on his chest. He can feel the cool press of her ring against his skin. “To make it just ours.”

Smiling slightly, he kisses the top of her head and skims his hand down the line of her spine. “Sounds perfect.”

*


End file.
